


(the longer you think) the less you know

by BigScaryDinos



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Drunk Texting, Drunkenness, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Not Beta Read, Nothing Hurts, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexting, Short One Shot, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigScaryDinos/pseuds/BigScaryDinos
Summary: Matt is going to hop on a plane and fly to America to meet up with Mello. At least that's the plan. Then they start texting.ORMatt seems like the kinda guy to ask for nudes.
Relationships: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl
Kudos: 15





	(the longer you think) the less you know

**Author's Note:**

> >> = Mello   
> << = Matt.

_ >>god i fucking miss yuo  _

_ << You* _

_ << I know. You’re drunk.  _

_ << shouldn’t you say something like god i miss fucking you? _

_ <<lol.  _

Mello is never drunk, alcohol doesn’t normally hold any kind of appeal to him. What he’s previously tried has tasted like a mix of chlorine, dirt, and sour juice. Besides the taste it impairs him. As much as he wants to spite all the things he’s spent years learning from the House he can’t let go of the idea of being inebriated enough to make poor choices. It’s the only golden rule he’s got left; when all sense of morality has up and left. He could kill a man, pull the trigger, end a life, cause world wide chaos - that is all fine. He only wants his better judgment normally left unclouded to avoid awkward situations that, with somebody like Kira on the loose, could turn dangerously fatal too quickly. 

Tonight is different. Tonight is a celebration, in a way. A toast, maybe. He’s never had birthday parties, but he imagines this is what one might feel like, or something like that. 

_ >>not drunk.  _

_ >> just weird.  _

_ >>autocorrect. _

_ >>SORRY. _

He attempts to correct himself but ends up unsure what he’s apologizing for. He never apologizes; but this all caps locked word still slips out. The blonde glares at the screen as if it has a mind of its own to type that word.  _ Ignore it, let it just go.  _ It’s an oddly coherent thought which is overly easy to accept. 

Mello clutches the phone between his gloved fingers, folding himself smaller and smaller into the leather chair until he feels the energy inside of himself is unable to be quarantined any longer. Like a jack in the box waiting to spring he unfurls himself all at once, expanding into the world - feeling the jolts of lightning rush to his fingertips and his toes. Nobody else is inside the room with him to watch the spectacle; his back cracks loudly without an audience. Mello chances a look at the blurry numbers lit up on the phone - nearly one am. Something close to nine in the morning for his friend. 

Matt will be here within twelve hours, the flight scheduled to take off in less than sixty minutes; Mello would know because Mello is the one who bought the tickets. At least from a fake name with fake accounts - the money is very real though. Once Matt steps foot on the American soil all the plans really move to the second stage. It might be slow at first, but it will still be in motion. Anything past stage one is dangerous. Mello doesn’t want to think of things being dangerous. He wants to think of Matt. The two haven’t seen each other in three years, and even that was almost accidental. Mello bumping into his friend outside of Brussels - of all the places in the world.

That was when Mello decided he needed a plane ticket to someplace out of reach of everyone he knew. He had to separate himself and the bomb that he felt like he was from the only person he cared about. So it was a plane ticket with the clothes on his back and one travel bag across the vast ocean with no forwarding address. No plan. Somehow he managed, somehow the persistent tech nerd still found him after some time, somehow things would work out eventually - that’s what Matt said. 

But now that was past him, all the history they had, this was time to act. Matt was coming and Mello felt giddy in the sickest way possible.  _ We might die.  _ He had texted Matt a few weeks ago.  _ Yeah but - we could live too.  _ That was what really cemented the plans. His friend was full of possibility. Positivities that nobody expected. That itself was intoxicating. 

Josef is in the next room, playing a silly mix of eighties American music. Pop hits. Radio hits. One hit wonders. The Cure once or twice just to add some kind of spice to the mix. It’s all music that came out years prior to Mello himself. Things he’d only heard in passing; not that it was doing much to sink into his brain tonight. It’s nice. Mello doesn’t think of that word often,  _ nice.  _ For as long as he could remember there was never much nice about life. Just studying, working hard, trying to be the best. Matt was nice. There is something about the loud music that makes him plan for one more drunk night with the redhead himself here. 

He wants to spin the other kid around by his thin wrists to something they don’t know the words to. Mello wants to kiss him on the lips the way they used to when all the lights were out and everyone was in their dorm rooms. He wants to dredge up memories that were shrouded in secret for so long they might as well be fairy tales. 

_ <<Okay. Well. A. I don’t believe you. You are for sure drunk.  _

_ << B. What are you wearing? _

Mello lets out a low nasally laugh, watching the dot dot dot pop up on the phone screen. It’s only a burner phone but right now it feels as personal as a friend. These waiting messages that mean someplace in the world Matt is attached to the other end, typing out another message. Mello can close his eyes and picture fingers, nails bitten down to bloody stubs in the morning light of an airport while he figures out what he wants to say. The message comes through, the short vibration forcing the blonde’s eyes open. 

_ << ;)  _

“That’s it huh?” Mello wonders out loud. He pinches his nose, thinking about what to say. Maybe he should just tell him he’s drunk, admit it. It’s clearly obvious. The teen never drinks and with all the anxious energy inside his body he feels that all he can do until he lays hands on the expected guest is stay away and suck down whatever the boys had put in the fridge. 

_ >> I am not drunk. _

Mello types sending it off again. It takes a great deal of effort with every shred of concentration he can muster up to ensure everything is spelled correctly. He even double checks to make sure the period is in place. “Do you think a drunk person would use correct grammar? Punctuation?” He asks himself slurring the words to the empty room. His own voice is too high. If Matt decides to call him the farce would be discovered in a second. Mello is split fifty fifty down the middle if he wants to hear his friend’s voice. Distraction comes in the way of wrapping his chapped lips around the bottle of Heineken. 

His original request was for American beer, but after only two bottles into his Miller Lite twelve pack he decided he needed something different. Heineken was something he was familiar with. It tasted like something he could stomach, having had it a few times while he was traveling through Europe on his own man hunt before his sixteenth birthday. He chases the beer with sips of vodka from the glass bottle beside the couch he plans on sleeping on. Since stepping foot in America, Mello hasn’t ever really had a home - not in New York, not in L.A, not in any of the million dingy cities he’s hidden away in for short periods of time, but Josef’s couch is the next best thing. 

The music doesn’t stop, only seems to get louder. The secret he hasn’t learned until tonight is that alcohol tastes best after you’ve had a lot of alcohol. The things that tasted too hoppy before now went smoothly down his throat. Mello repositions himself on the chair besides the couch, swinging his legs over the edge and thinks what would be a good response. Matt hasn’t written back yet. Probably waiting for an answer to the question. Matt can be persistent sometimes. 

_ >>Black. _

_ >>Leather.  _

_ >>Boots. _

Mello waits less than sixty seconds. 

_ << Kinky.  _

_ <<You are drunk, _

_ << Send a photo.  _

Even drunk, Mello understands what suicide looks like. The odd request from somebody who knows the risks makes his focus dip; spelling errors come in hot and heavy. 

_ >>Fuck you. _

_ >>No. _

_ >>Ull see me in tw12 hour.  _

_ >>want me dead bef re that?? _

_ <<Little Wino.  _

_ <<Not your face you ducking dripshirt. _

The blonde doesn’t know exactly what to say to the response which comes quickly on the heels his own texts. Instead he finds his fingers again resting on his nose, pinching the bridge for a second before his phone beeps - vibrating against his fingers. 

_ << *Fucking. _

_ <<*dipshit _

_ <<Sorry! I may also be drinking.  _

_ << :D  _

It’s nine in the morning and Matt is already drinking, clearly great minds think alike. This is all so silly that Mello finds his own mind blank, drifting someplace far away. It’s easy, suddenly to forget something about himself. This basic fear of himself being hacked, spread to the wrong person. Kira needs a face. Not a body. A body can be anyone. It takes five seconds to snap a shot of his toros as seen from his perspective. The cross hanging on his chest, a grey t-shirt riding up his midriff. The leather pants that have accidentally become too tight over the course of the conversation. His legs over the armrest, trailing off into his boots. 

He doesn’t want to overthink himself, take multiple photos, risk showing anything he shouldn’t be showing. If he stopped and really thought about it he wouldn’t send anything at all other than some sarcastic words. If he hadn’t been four beers in, allowing the liquid to slosh around inside his empty stomach maybe he would even turn off his phone. Instead he thinks of Matt, sitting with a bottle of beer between his fingers watching the clock in a bar inside the airport. He’s been there, killing time before a flight. Can taste the stale air on his tongue, can see a businessman in an expensive suit tossing darts while he waits for his connection. Mello hits send. 

His phone buzzes quickly and he wonders if Matt even looked at the photo. How can something send so fast all the way across this Earth. Sober Mello would understand, but in the state he is in it’s like magic. He finds a smile etched across his lips. 

_ <<duck _

Mello doesn’t spend much time waiting until the word duck comes through three more times, then - 

_ <<FUCK _

It’s so easy to laugh, so easy to let little things slip out of his mouth and his mind that he would otherwise keep locked up. He wishes Matt were here right now, wishes he didn’t have to wait any extra time at all. He knows his fingers would find a place against hot skin inside this ugly basement. He knows exactly what they would be doing; and it has nothing at all to do with Kira or planning or criminal cases. Not further texts come through but time seems to be dragging so slowly. Mello types another message to keep things flowing between them. It seems painful to be torn away right now. 

_ >>Why are you drinking _

_ <<maybe I’ll be dead by the end of the week. _

_ << maybe I miss you.  _

_ <<maYbe just bored nd waiting for this stupid flight.  _

_ << another pic?? _

Mello laughs, spreads his legs across the armrest while he places the phone against his chin allowing his right hand, still clad in his black leather glove to rest against his bare stomach; on the LCD screen his skin looks overly washed out. The strip of skin next to the grey looks sickly. It’s probably being locked up inside this stupid basement most days, scheming away. It’s okay, he doesn’t have to think about any of that right now. The alcohol does all the work while he snaps the shot, checking quickly to make sure nothing of his face is in view then hitting send. 

_ >>good? _

_ <<good. _

_ << could be better ;)  _

Mello wants to ask if Matt wants him to get naked - he already knows the answer will be yes but it still makes him burn from the inside out the way somebody across the world could want something from him. There’s something delicious about somebody telling him exactly what he wants. Coming in second place for so long makes this kind of validation seem worth all the risks. Besides, everything that has happened between the two of them often comes without words. Physically to put both boys inside a small bedroom for years at a time it was hard not to find a way to connect together; but verbally - it was much harder to communicate what they wanted or needed. So to have this, even if it’s blurred with alcohol is nice. That word again,  _ nice.  _

_ >>tell me what you want then???? _

He hits send. He waits and waits and waits. It feels like hours pass. It’s almost nauseating how he feels, like he’s suspended in midair. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe all the years of connection were just for nothing, maybe he’s reading too into things. 

_ <<wanna be there.  _

_ >>in like 1111 hours you will be. _

_ <<hope its not thAT long. _

_ <<MAYBE less leather?? _

_ <<just an idea _

_ <<OR maybe we can have more leather. lol.  _

_ <<OR _

_ <<less of everything ;)  _

It seems the spelling on Matt’s side is getting worse, Mello hopes with the only sober brain cell left rattling around inside his head that he’s coherent enough to get on a plane without issue. There is no reason to get ejected for being shit faced before noon. Not that needing a different flight by a few hours would blow the plan overall; they still have months to go, but Mello doesn’t think he wants to wait that long to tangle his fingers in the roots of that red hair and drag his mouth close enough they can share one breath. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other's face - but nothing seems to matter. The anticipation feels physical. 

Mello strips off his shirt instead of his pants, opting to keep his leather in place while silently praying Josef doesn’t come in. Nobody really sees him without all his layers. At most the only spot usually seen is the strip of skin that hangs below the hem of his shirt but isn’t quite covered by his pants. Maybe they see something closer to his navel if he stretches. Bare flesh is a privacy that stays far away from his cohorts. 

Feeling exposed, he snaps another photo and only feels self conscious enough to finish his beer. After setting the bottle on the floor the noise seems far too loud as it clinks against the hard ground. He examines the photo for anything traceable, spotting nothing his fingers autopilot and hit send. 

While waiting for any kind of answer he allows himself two more mouthfuls of vodka. Nothing comes. He wonders if maybe he should put his shirt back on before anything happens - a fear of being walked in on despite not having done anything exactly wrong flutters through his addled mind. How would he explain this - should somebody spot him? The rational part of his brain wants to scream that he doesn’t need to explain anything. It’s the truth,but it’s a hard pill to swallow all the same. Even as he nears twenty looking at himself naked - or even semi naked he thinks he hasn’t changed since he was twelve. Something about his lack of defined muscles, the empty space where he might have abs plays into a part of his mind that doesn’t matter. A vanity that should have been stripped off of him in all the years at the school. 

Mello sets the burner down on his stomach, feeling the hard plastic resting against his bare skin. He waits and waits and waits. The same song is still playing so all his restless anticipation must not amount to much before he feels the vibration against himself. Overly eager he brings the phone to his face and examines the new message. 

He’s rewarded with a pixelated image slowly rendering from it’s collection of dots before his eyes. Mello squints allowing the blinding light to take all of his eyesight. Between his own inebriation and the shitty screen it’s like one of those games you find in American dinners; the ones where you pop in one quarter and the picture slowly reveals itself. You race the clock trying to guess what the image will be. Only this photo isn’t a bunch of oranges or a pair of palm trees. It’s Matt. 

Matt; at least that is what Mello tells himself, has taken a photo from his own chin down in the reflective surface of a public bathroom mirror. His army green shirt is pulled up just under his chin, tucked in and hiding any features that may have been exposed. His skin is the same sick white shade that matches Mello, feeling more and more anemic by the minute as blood pools to different body parts instead of his head. Matt’s skinny torso ends in a trail of dark red hair leading under his navel and to the top of his dark denim, slung on his hips like a warning. Unlike Mello who is skinny with no substance, Matt is skinny and etched with the lines of somebody accustomed to physical work. He seems built solid with muscles defined across the bare body. 

The temperature has to have gone up inside the room by at least ten degrees, nothing is showing, nothing more than what would be PG-13. It’s enough though. The desire is there, this urge that there has to be more. It’s unbearable to wait such a long amount of time until the two can be in the same room together. 

_ >>IDEA : you take something off ill take somethin off.  _

Grammar doesn’t matter anymore. The blonde doesn’t care. He only wants to get the message across and if he can do it littered with spelling errors that is fine. 

_ >> if you say no ill cry.  _

Mello’s gloved fingers fly across the keyboard without regard for what he’s saying, it’s a sudden desperation that coats his mouth with this urge to speak. He wants to call Matt just to hear his voice echo off the tiles inside a bathroom thousands of miles away. Matt already knows his friend is too drunk to pretend anymore. There’s nothing left to hide. 

_ << Sounds fair.  _

_ << your turn. _

It’s as if he’s a child doing something wrong the way Mello straightens himself up in the chair. He swigs from the open Vodka bottle again allowing himself to think that he really shouldn’t be doing this right now. He feels the fire spread into his chest, giving him a confidence he’s not used to. 

He can’t overthink things. With one hand clutching the quickly emptying bottle, the other holding his phone he stands on unsteady legs. Wobbling and weak, his head full of static from the motion he walks towards the doorway, peaking around into the next room as if he’ll get in trouble for anything. As if he’s trying to spy on his parents, listening to a forbidden conversation. 

The reality that Mello forgets only sometimes is that he is the boss. He is the man in charge. He could walk around totally naked, spitting on the floor and always drunk and it wouldn’t matter. He’s passed all the right kinds of tests too long ago for it to even matter; but today with Matt’s words blinking off and on the small screen in his fist he feels like he’s back at school, creeping around trying not to get caught with his hands inside the cookie jar. 

Nobody seems to be anywhere in sight, the next room dark and empty where normally a cluster of people sit on couches, smoking while bitching about nothing in particular. Tonight it’s dead empty. The music plays from someplace even deeper inside the house, a distant stream of long forgotten one hit wonders. 

_ Fuck it.  _

Making his way back to the chair off to the side of the room he swallows what he can from the bottle and sets it as gently as he can on the hard floor. Once one hand has become free he tugs his pants down. The leather is soft against his thighs as it slides down to just under his knobby knees. He keeps the black briefs on - glad he’s decided to wear underwear today. It’s not usually something with much reason behind it other than if there’s anything clean nearby when he wakes up. He wonders if he looks any different from how he was at fourteen, the last time he and Matt were down to this little. 

His thighs look too thin, the muscles seem weak when posed against the harsh red of the plush chair. Skin and bones with none of the definition his friend has; none of those sharp lines that carve into the tender skin. It doesn’t matter; the tenting of his underwear can’t be concealed without the multiple layers. Hopefully that will be enough to make the photo worth the red flush that takes over his face. 

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. His throat is on fire while he takes the picture and sends it off. It’s not worth much to think about. His fingers tangle inside his own hair, ruffling the normally so composed locks into a mess of tangles. All Mello wants is to stay like this; blissfully out of his own mind for the rest of his life. He’s so tired of thinking about things that end in explosions, catastrophe, and messes he can’t begin to pick up. He wants to act his age instead of feeling this pressure to be more than he is. This self imposed pressure. Once Near had been chosen it should have been a free pass, an escape route. Instead his own mind had to butcher all his thoughts; knowing he could never be happy until he was good enough. Until he was the best. Matt is more than all that. Matt is the only thing that really takes some of that pressure off.

The soft ding of the phone resting against his heaving chest pulls from him his thoughts again. He feels overly hot, sweaty. 

_ << yes.  _

_ << yes. Yes. yes.  _

_ << you been working out  _

Mello is sure that’s some kind of dig. 

_ >> shut up fu ck you. _

_ >>your turn _ . 

He waits. He holds his breath. He counts the seconds. A drop of sweat makes its way down his arm as he sits up straighter. He doesn’t want to feel this sobriety sinking into his chest. He walks with his pants around his ankles to where he’s dropped the bottle. Instead of picking it up he sinks to his knees and allows himself to melt onto the cool floor. He drinks deep enough to forget most of his life.  _ Ding.  _ Mello almost drops the phone. 

It’s a photo; but not the one he wants. It’s Matt, chin down - a perspective shot. His feet in dark red converse as he walks across overly bright reflective tile. It’s pretty evident even from this piss poor picture he was interrupted in the middle of something he shouldn’t have been doing, his half tucked in shirt, his tight jeans. At least that’s some kind of feeling, some kind of affirmation that Mello’s photos were enough. The texts all come back to back. 

_ <<lol. Getting on the plane now.  _

_ <<airplane mode ;)  _

_ << if u wanna send more photos im sure ill get them when i land.  _

_ << but ialso get u when i land.  _

_ << see you soon.  _

_ << don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.  _

_ <<brb.  _

Then it’s all quite. That’s it. No more texts. Just this silent phone, clutched in damp hands. Mello feels like an idiot only long enough to pull his pants up. He doesn’t know where his shirt wandered off too. It’s only been off his body for less than five minutes, but it could be light years away. He wraps his lips around the bottle of vodka as he stands up and wanders into the next room; shame forgotten. Under his leather pants he is achingly hard and angry. He needs something else to drink or he’ll start planning how he wants to kill Matt the second he steps off the plane. 


End file.
